“Which is Bubb-Dodington? Is he here?”

“Indeed.” Lucinda pointed with her fan. “Standing by the hearth—in the reddish suit.”

Grey squinted through the haze of hearth smoke and candle glow, picking out a slender figure in bagwig and rose velvet—fashionable, to be sure, but seeming somehow slightly fawning in attitude, as he leaned toward another of the group.

“I have inquired regarding him,” Grey said. “I hear he is a political, but one of no great consequence; a mere time-server.”

“True, he is nothing in himself. His associations, though, are more substantial. Those with whom he allies himself are scarcely without power, though not—not yet!—in control.”

“And who are those? I am quite ignorant of politics these days.”

“Sir Francis Dashwood, John Wilkes, Mr. Churchill…Paul Whitehead, too. Oh, and Everett. You know George Everett?”

“We are acquainted,” Grey said equably. “The invitation you mentioned…?”

“Oh, yes.” Quarry shook his head, recalled to himself. “I finally discovered the whereabouts of the hall porter. He had overheard enough of Bubb-Dodington’s conversation to say that the man was urging Gerald to accept an invitation to stay at West Wycombe.”

Quarry raised his brows high in implication, but Grey remained ignorant and said so.

“West Wycombe is the home of Sir Francis Dashwood,” Lady Lucinda put in. “And the center of his influence. He entertains there lavishly, even as we do”—her plump mouth made a small moue of deprecation—“and to the same purposes.”

“The seduction of the powerful?” Grey smiled. “So Bubb-Dodington—or his masters—sought to entice Gerald? To what end, I wonder?”

“Richard calls the West Wycombe assemblage a nest of vipers,” Lucinda said. “Bent upon achieving their ends by any means, even dishonorable ones. Perhaps they sought to lure Robert into their camp for the sake of his own virtues, or”—she paused, hesitant—“for the sake of what he might know regarding the prime minister’s affairs?”

The music was starting afresh at the far end of the room, and they were interrupted at this delicate moment by a lady who, spotting them in their leafy refuge, came bustling in to claim Harry Quarry for a dance, waving aside all possibility of refusal with an airy fan.

“Is that not Lady Fitzwalter?” Buxom and high-colored, the lady now pressing Quarry’s hand provocatively to her breast was the wife of Sir Hugh, an elderly baronet from Sussex. Quarry appeared to have no objections, following up Lady F’s flirtations with a jocular pinch.

“Oh, Harry fancies himself a great rake,” Lady Lucinda said tolerantly, “though anyone can see it comes to nothing more than a hand of cards in the gentlemen’s clubs and an eye for shapely flesh. Is any officer in London greatly different?” A shrewd gray eye passed over Lord John, inquiring as to what his own differences might be.

“Indeed,” he said, amused. “And yet he was sent to Scotland for some indiscretion, I collect. Was it not the incident that left him with that slash across the face?”

“Oh, la,” she said, pursing up her mouth in scorn. “The famous scar! One would think it the Order of the Garter, he do flaunt it so. No, no, ’twas the cards that were the cause of his exile—he caught a Colonel of the regiment a-cheating at loo, and was too much gone in wine to keep a decent silence on the point.”

Grey opened his mouth to inquire about the scar, but was silenced himself by her grip upon his sleeve.

“Now, there’s a rake, if you want one,” she said, low-voiced. Her eyes marked out a man across the room, near the hearth. “Dashwood; him Harry spoke of. Know of him, do you?”

Grey squinted against the haze of smoke in the room. The man was heavy-bodied, but betrayed no softness of flesh; the sloping shoulders were thick with muscle, and if waist and calves were thick as well, it was by a natural inclination of form, rather than the result of indulgence.

“I have heard the name,” Grey said. “A political of some minor repute?”

“In the arena of politics, yes,” Lady Lucinda agreed, not taking her eyes from the man. “In others…less minor. In fact, his repute in some circles is nothing short of outright notoriety.”

A reach for a glass stretched the satin of Dashwood’s broidered plum-silk waistcoat tight across a broad chest, and brought into view a face, likewise broad, ruddy in the candle glow and animated with a cynic laughter. He wore no wig, but had a quantity of dark hair, curling low across the brow. Grey furrowed his own brow in the effort of recall; someone had said something to him, yes—but the occasion escaped him, as did its content.

“He seems a man of substance,” he hazarded. Certainly Dashwood was the cynosure of his end of the room, all eyes upon him as he spoke.

Lady Lucinda uttered a short laugh.

“Do you think so, sir? He and his friends flaunt their practice of licentiousness and blasphemy as Harry flaunts his scar—and from the same cause.”

It was the word “blasphemy” that brought back recollection.

“Ha. I have heard mention…Medmenham Abbey?”

Lucinda’s lips pursed tight, and she nodded. “The Hellfire Club, they call it.”

“Indeed. There have been Hellfire clubs before—many of them. Is this one more than the usual excuse for public riot and drunken license?”

She looked at the men before the fire, her countenance troubled. With the light of the blaze behind them, all individuality of lineament was lost; they appeared no more than an assemblage of dark figures; faceless devils, outlined by the firelight.

“I think not,” she said, very low-voiced, glancing to and fro to assure they were unheard. “Or so I didthink—until I heard of the invitation to Robert. Now…”

The advent near the jungle of a tall, good-looking man whose resemblance to Quarry made his identity clear put an end to the clandestine conference.

“There is Sir Richard; he is looking for me.” Poised to take flight, Lady Lucinda stopped and looked back at Grey. “I cannot say, sir, what reason you may have for your interest—but I do thank you for it.” A flicker of wryness lit the gray eyes. “Godspeed you, sir—though for myself, I should not much respect a God so petty as to be concerned with such as Francis Dashwood.”

Grey passed into the general crowd, bowing and smiling, allowing himself to be drawn into a dance here, a conversation there; keeping all the time one eye upon the group near the hearth. Men joined it for a short time, fell away, and were replaced by others, yet the central group remained unchanged.

Bubb-Dodington and Dashwood were the center of it; Churchill, the poet John Wilkes, and the Earl of Sandwich surrounded them. Seeing at one point during a break in the music that a good many had gathered by the hearth, men and women alike, Grey thought the moment ripe to make his own presence known, and unobtrusively joined the crowd, maneuvering to a spot near Bubb-Dodington.

Mr. Justice Margrave was holding the floor, speaking of the subject which had formed the meat of most conversations Grey had heard so far—the death of Robert Gerald, or more particularly, the rash of rumor and scandal that followed it. The judge caught Grey’s eye and nodded—his worship was well acquainted with Grey’s family—but continued his denunciation unimpeded.

“I should wish that, rather than the pillory, the stake be the punishment for such abominable vice.” Margrave swung a heavy head in Grey’s direction, eyelids dropping half closed. “Have you read Holloway’s notion, sir? He suggests that this disgusting practice of sodomy be restrained by castration or some other cogent preventative.”

Grey restrained the urge to clasp himself protectively.

“Cogent, indeed,” he said. “You suppose the man who cut down Robert Gerald to be impelled by moralistic motives, then?”

“Whether he were or no, I should say he has rendered signal service to society, ridding us of an exponent of this moral blight.”